


The Burdens Of Our Blood

by Kiterou



Series: r/Fanfiction Trope Bingo [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternative Universe - Boromir Lives, Arranged Marriage, Asexual Character, Boromir is a Good Brother, Depression, F/M, Faramir Is A Good Brother, Friendship, Gender Roles, Getting to Know Each Other, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Mentions of War, Merry Is An Excellent Friend, No Beta We Die Like Gríma, One-Sided Attraction, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29819841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiterou/pseuds/Kiterou
Summary: After everything settles, Rohan and Gondor start to mend their relationship. And while Éowyn sets her eyes on Faramir in the Houses of Healing, it's not him who is the eldest son of the former steward. A tale of duty and humanity and the relationships between.---For the r/FanFiction Trope Bingo 2021!Round 1, 5x5Tropes used: Arranged Marriage, Rejected Marriage ProposalTropes planned: Happily Married, Romantic Rain
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Arwen Undómiel & Éowyn, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Éowyn, Merry Brandybuck & Éowyn, one-sided Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: r/Fanfiction Trope Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192046
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13
Collections: /r/FanFiction Trope Bingo Events





	1. Chapter 1

The message arrives in the form of Éomer, who knows not that it breaks Éowyn’s slowly healing heart. But there is not much her brother knows about her, she thinks, not after years of sickness and shadows underneath the golden roof of Meduseld. Years he spent fighting alongside his men; years she spent alongside their uncle and the poisonous whispers of Gríma Wormtongue.

“The war is over,” he says like she doesn’t know, face flush from his likely hurry up the hill. “And soon, Aragorn will be crowned. Gondor and Rohan have been separated for too long, Éowyn. You are to marry.”

“Whom?” she asks and her heart aches. A flash of reddish hair and kind, blue eyes comes to her, even though Aragorn’s name still leaves a sting. There is hope here, she thinks, but she doesn’t trust it. It still hurts, the cold, when she is right not to trust.

“Boromir, who is to become the new steward after Denethor’s fall. You will meet him soon.”

 _What about Faramir,_ she doesn’t say. _What about me. Will you give me away like a token gift, the good wife for your plans when you’ve only been king for a fortnight?_ She stays still, and what little goodness her days in the Houses of Healing has brought her slips away from her cold grasp like a banner taken by the wind. She thinks of days spent side by side with a man who has a shy smile and speaks gently. She thinks of how he listens when she talks and the absence of pity in his eyes.

“Boromir,” she says instead, her voice as far away as her heart. Then she turns around and doesn’t say anything anymore until Éomer is gone again.

~~~

“Éowyn.” There is a warmth in Faramir’s blue eyes and for a moment Éowyn wonders if she would see the same when she meets his brother. Some siblings share those features. Éomer and Éowyn do not. She doesn’t know what will be worse: if Boromir’s eyes are as blue, or if they aren’t.

“Faramir,” she greets him after moments stretch into seconds without her notice. She feels afloat like she felt during those first weeks after striking down the witch king, the coldness in her heart almost suffocating. Éomer is gone and the evening approaches, but now she is caged in on this hill, so far away from home; whatever peace this place has once offered her taken away by her own brother. Her eyes slide off of Faramir’s face and into the distance - to the south, where she knows lies the sea. “Have you heard?”

“Are you happy?” He likes to ask her questions, to hear her opinions. Hope flares again in her chest, painful with its false warmth. Hope is nothing but the memory of it, she knows. Too rarely is it real for her, but even after all this, she cannot help but seek him out again.

For weeks, they have talked, alone in the Houses of Healing, sharing their stories full of similar pains and hardships. There is a closeness between them she never had with Aragorn, and for a bit, she has hoped it might mean something more. Hopes it still, even when she knows what kind of man Faramir is.

But she thinks she might love him, for his kindness and understanding. Empathy without pity, wisdom without haughtiness, his gentle nature and careful approach enough for Éowyn to open up once more. And she thinks he might love her, too, and will take her away from this new cage she finds herself in.

“I am not, Faramir. How could I, when I am to be given away to someone I don’t know?” She doesn’t intend for the bitterness to swing so prominently in her words, but they are out now and between them, like so many other words spoken.

The fact that he takes his time to answer is one of the many things she appreciates about him. That he thinks before he speaks, always careful to say what he means and can stand behind. “Boromir is an honourable man,” he says after a while, as they stay together outside the House and watch the birds fly by. Sometimes, Éowyn fancies she can hear the cries of the seagulls from the far-away shores. “He will be a good husband, once you come to know him.”

“And I a good wife?” Hope warms her, burns her, hot embers she cannot touch but cannot let go either. “Faramir, I-” She looks up, then, and meets his sombre eyes. Him, she knows. Him, she trusts. She loves him, even though the memories of another man keep their sting and she doesn’t know what that means. “If I were to marry a man from Gondor, I’d rather marry the man I love.”

She knows that he knows, then, as she says it. Sees the way his eyes widen. The surprise he feels frightens her because she thought he’d know, thought he’d love her as well. How often they walked these paths, how often they whispered about dreams and the past and, after a while, even about the future as well? But he only just notices. He only just _sees._

Panic, then, has her acting like a young girl again; clumsy, hurriedly, without thinking. Another person close to her slipping away, and she can’t help but try and prevent it. His hand, when she takes it into her own, feels warm and worn, the callouses of battle deeply ingrained into his strong fingers. “I love you, Faramir,” she tells him, the words rushed now, because if this fails, if he, too, turns away from her-

“Éowyn,” he says and she shudders. “I cannot. My heart is not free to give.” Whatever warmth and hope and trust she’d felt before crumbles between her fingers. Her heart closes off and her hands grow cold and again she turns away.

Perhaps, she thinks, he truly never led her on. They have never talked about any of this, no matter how often they shared their thoughts with each other. But then, he’d neither talked about a wife or even a lover, never even mentioned another woman’s name. _Neither did Aragorn,_ she remembers bitterly, eyes trailing the southern sky, shivering as the cold claims her. _Not until I spoke of my feelings._

“I’m sorry,” he says and she doesn’t know if, for the first time, he looks at her with pity. She cannot turn around, cannot find any strength left in her to see for herself. Instead, she does as Éomer has done to her before, as Aragorn and Théoden and Théodred have done, and before them her parents, Théodwyn and Éomund.

This time, it is her that leaves him behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Boromir has not thought of marriage for a long time. It has always been war for Gondor, always another fight he had to lead his men. And then Faramir started to dream and he, too, dreamt once of what was to come, and Boromir had to go in Faramir’s stead, because how could he, the elder, send his younger brother up to the north?

Maybe, he thinks as he makes his way to the Houses of Healing, it would have been better had Faramir gone to seek out the meaning of their shared dream. Sensible, calm, kind Faramir, who had resisted the temptation of the ring where Boromir had failed. But he didn’t let him, he went for himself and lost to his fear and his pride as he’d lost the young hobbits to the Uruk-hai.

They are with him, now, Merry and Pippin, when they aren’t with Frodo and Sam. They laugh and joke and talk to him, like they did before the Rauros Falls and after, when they’d found them again in Isengard. Despite his many failures, they still look at him with friendship and fondness and even admiration in their eyes and it warms his heart as much as it burdens him with the weight of their expectations: to them, he is still strong Boromir, who’d tried and teach them how to fight; Boromir, who carried them out of the depths of Moria, leaving the wizard behind; Boromir, his chest pierced with arrows, desperate to make amends, to protect the little ones after driving away the ring bearer.

 _It is over now,_ he tells himself. At least the biggest threat is gone and with him most of the forces of evil. There are still orcs to kill and traitors to hunt. Old alliances left broken after years in which Gondor needed to stay strong and fighting. Rohan isn’t the only nation that grew vary of them after one too many plead ignored; now that peace has been won, he knows it is time to make many amends more, to strengthen the bonds tentatively made during those last few fights. But they can do this, now.

Aragorn, after all, rode back with them into the city, side-by-side with the newly crowned Éomer, after the war was over and the ring destroyed. 

He is young, Éomer. Younger than Boromir, matching Faramir in age. Aragorn, he knows, is far older than both put together, but he doesn’t look like it. With his head held high, the sun on his dark hair and a light in his eyes, his king looks youthful in a way he hasn’t for most of the quest. Young and tall and full of strength, but also kindness and wisdom and a thousand other things Boromir could name in a heartbeat. Sometimes, it amuses Boromir how blind he’s been, back in Rivendell. It had taken a long time to see the qualities Aragorn carries within himself, mostly because Boromir hadn’t bothered to take a closer look.

There truly are a great many things Boromir regrets, but he is glad that at least in this, he’d learned better. Maybe it is the twinge of old wounds, reminders of those arrows piercing his flesh, that reminds him of all that: when he’d laid dying, meeting Aragorn’s frantic eyes as his king went to heal him, he’d thought that whatever happened, he’d never again shy away from looking. Because he hadn’t, once, and dismissed this man, this king, until it was nearly too late.

And maybe it is this promise he’d made to himself that lets him see the distress on Faramir’s face so clearly when he goes to meet his brother.

“What happened?” he asks immediately because there aren’t many people he holds as dear as Faramir. Ever since they’d just been boys, they’d loved each other fiercely. Not even father’s death had changed that, never mind that kind, sensible Faramir blamed himself for something out of his control. So it is worry that has him close the distance, his hands on Faramir’s shoulders. Is there a tremble of weakness, the heat of a recurring fever? Or that dreaded coldness returned?

He thinks that losing him, now that the war is over, might be enough to finally kill him where orcs and trolls and his own traitorous heart had failed.

But he finds no dangerous heat nor deadly cold and his brother’s shoulders are firm and strong underneath his fingers. “I am well, brother,” Faramir says and Boromir closes his eyes for a moment as the tension of fear leaves him.

Faramir is well. He is not dying again. “You are agitated,” he says before he opens his eyes, one hand moving to Faramir’s neck in close greeting. “Have you worried about me?”

Blue eyes soften and Boromir is treated to a small, kind smile. “Of course. You are my brother, I always worry.” Faramir returned the gesture then, leaning his forehead against Boromir’s for a lingering moment. It reminds Boromir of their younger days before the darkness started to rise - back when they had freely teased each other, when jokes had yet to taste bitter on their tongues.

And then Faramir sighs and steps away just enough to meet Boromir’s eyes, face solemn and eyes sad. “Yesterday, Éowyn was told about the marriage. She-” Here he hesitates and Boromir can see the guilt in the way he purses his lips and averts his gaze. “Boromir, I think we did her no kindness. In the evening, she came to me, not to ask about you, but to ask for me instead.”

“For you..?” It takes a moment for Boromir to understand, and when he does, he swallows and grips Faramir’s shoulders just a bit firmer, as if to hold him steady. It makes Faramir look up, at least. Boromir wonders what Faramir would see - a matching expression of unease, maybe, of the guilt he now feels, too? “She loves you, then?”

“I don’t know. I think she didn’t lie, but I have not seen it before. I didn’t know.” A quick shake of his head, the slightest tremble when he breathes out - Faramir looks nervous, like he doesn’t know what to do about this. “I told her I couldn’t. I like her, Boromir, but not like that. But ever since I told her, she hasn’t spoken again, neither to me nor to Merry when he came for her. Or to any of the healers. Do you think that perhaps I should-”

 _“No.”_ This, at least, is the surest thing Boromir can say right now. It’s not a favourable situation, to have Éomer’s sister be in love with Faramir, but he won’t have both live a miserable life if he can’t help it. “This is my duty now, Faramir. I will not do this to you when I know better what makes you happy than father ever did. That’s why I was chosen, remember? So that you could go back to Ithilien and not have you chained in this city for years.”

“It shouldn’t matter what I want. We became friends, Éowyn and I - maybe we could find a way for both of us to enjoy marriage.”

“So you will lie to her and play pretend when we both know it won’t work?”

At that, Faramir looks up, startled and with an expression on his face Boromir hadn’t seen in a long time. To see it again, vulnerable and unsure and _guilty_ , is more painful than every wound he received between Rivendell and the Black Gates. “Boromir,” his brother starts - and Boromir sighs and shakes his head, his grip not once wavering on Faramir’s shoulders.

“We both know your heart, brother. You should not judge yourself so harshly for the way it works. Those who value you for who you are do not care - so please, don’t do this to yourself. Extend your hand in friendship to her, but don’t offer something you cannot give, regardless of who comes asking.”

“So instead of me, you chain yourself and her to Gondor,” Faramir says, his voice a curious blend of bitterness and fondness.

“I would chain the whole world when that is needed to set you free, my brother,” Boromir says.


	3. Chapter 3

Days go by, and with each one passing, Éowyn feels like another gilded bar is added to her newest cage. It might be as big as a city, with a soon-to-be-king and a queen that isn’t her, with white towers and buildings and walls that can be seen from far away, but it feels like a cage all the same, ever since Éomer told her, ever since Faramir denied her.

 _My heart is not free to give,_ he’d said and she feels like she is back in Rohan, back inside a suffocating golden hall, next to a deaf, old man withering away, in the presence of a cowardly liar, who was still the only one who’d seen _her_ , not the little sister, not the sister’s daughter, but _her_ , Éowyn.

Why, out of all men she’d met, must it be _Gríma_ who understands her best?

Merry comes and visits, sometimes. All of Gondor is abuzz and she avoids it all, when she can. Avoids Faramir, who gives her space but follows her with his eyes. Avoids Éomer, who comes and asks how she feels, if everything is alright, if she wants for something. Avoids, more than anything, to meet with Boromir, whom she’d never met before and who is to be her husband shortly after Aragorn marries his future queen.

Thorns and cuts, all of that. Like brambles around her heart. It feels cold, from her once-struck arm all the way up to her chest and throat. It makes her choke, sometimes, when she sits at the window and looks out. She knows at least Éomer wants her to meet Boromir. Maybe he even regrets it, to arrange for this marriage without asking her first. But she isn’t naive; she knows of her station and the duty that comes with it. She is no longer the king’s sister’s daughter, but the king’s _sister_ and her blood is of value. If both Aragorn and Faramir are no longer an option, who is left to marry her off to?

At least Éomer knows Boromir. That is what he’d probably thought, without once thinking that Éowyn would rather go back to battle and be struck dead for good than to live her life as just another good wife.

How sweet the freedom of a disguise is, she thinks. Remembers how it was to be Dernhelm, one of many Rohirim fighting for their lives. Even now she remembers the heft of her sword and the weight of her shield. Remembers every ache and pain and panicked moment while facing the Witch-king of Angmar. Her arm feels numb whenever she does.

She thinks of it when Faramir comes to see her, more than a fortnight after their last talk. She still doesn’t want to even look at him. Maybe she is ought to feel more humiliation at his sight, but whatever emotion squeezes her throat, it feels oddly distant to her. Her eyes are set to the south, where the battle was fought, where even further away the shores lie, and she is keen to keep to herself, to ignore whatever he may say. Her life is no longer bound to his, after all - friendship has turned into tentative love has turned into something cold and far away and she has no strength left.

But then he opens his mouth and the first thing he says is: “I will leave after your wedding.”

It cuts her deep, when she’d thought nothing could touch her anymore. Without her consent her hands ball tightly into fists where she put them on her lap and it costs her all of her will to keep her eyes averted, to not react more than that.

“I know this won’t help you any further. I don’t even know if you want to hear this. But, Éowyn… you’ve become dear to me, my friend. Had I known you harboured feelings for me that go beyond this friendship, I would’ve told you before that I cannot give you this, but that doesn’t change that you are my friend, and that I value you. But out of all the things I can give you freely, what you desire is beyond my means, and for that I am sorry.”

She doesn’t want the tears to show, doesn’t want to show this weakness. They gather just behind her eyes anyway and she forces them down, down, away from her face when she turns her head. Faramir looks miserable, and she cannot fathom why. He is free, free to go and choose and do things to his liking, is he not? “You’ve never told me about her,” she says and hates how accusatory she sounds. Aragorn hadn’t either, not until she offered, anyway.

Maybe no man does, whilst playing with a woman’s heart in such ways. Maybe it is just her that is lacking. But she is a woman, no matter how she urges to be more than that, to be seen for _herself_ and not for her pretty face and noble birth. She hates that she can only be seen when being Dernhelm - not even her defeat of the Witch-king has changed that.

Yet, Faramir has the gall to look stricken, to hesitate, his blue eyes so sad and hurt that it sickens her. “Why is that, then? Why only tell me when I come to you? You could’ve told me anytime, yet you didn’t. I wonder why.”

“Because there isn’t anyone,” he says and she wishes he is lying. She can see that he is honest, knows him too well to be fooled otherwise, and she hates that, too. “There is no hidden lover, no hidden wife. My heart is not free to be given away.”

“How can you say that? It has to be bound somewhere! I don’t understand… is it me? Why can’t you just tell me?”

“It is not you, Éowyn!” His words come out stronger, but there is still a trembling note underneath them. His eyes are wider, too, almost pleading. When he steps forward, she turns fully, ready for whatever fight comes. “It is me.”

“Surely,” she says and scoffs and tries not to notice how he flinches away. “Yet I’m the one to suffer for it. No, Faramir, it is not you. Maybe you think it is, but I’m no such fool. It is me, it must be.” Her voice grows colder and her chin lifts - she will not be humiliated this way, not again. “I wish you good luck on your journey, Faramir, Son of Denethor.”

He stares at her and she doesn’t look away, even if she wants to. She wants to go back and hide, to go out and seek her own future, to scream and rage and tell her brother what exactly she wants, what he has done to her. But she doesn’t - she only stares at him until he goes away and she hates the way he looks, the way his shoulders slump and his eyes are drawn to the floor.

Maybe, she thinks when she settles back down, the energy draining away from her, she never wanted to hurt them. She just wants them to hurt her, which isn’t the same at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The first proper time Boromir meets Éowyn is the day before Aragorn’s wedding. Weeks have passed since coming back to Gondor, after that last, desperate bid for victory against Mordor and its rotten forces. People are still healing; those that came back, anyway. The years of war show clearly when the many guests arrive in the city - there are so many houses and spaces left free, nobody has a need of staying outside. Boromir remembers the times of his youth when Minas Tirith was brimming with life. Now, it is rare to hear a pure child’s laughter.

He stands next to Aragorn when the elves arrive. Faramir stands on his other side. The rest of the fellowship, even Frodo and Sam, are arranged around Aragorn as well. Gandal smiles when he sees the delegation. Aragorn only has eyes for the she-elf.

Boromir has only seen Arwen once, from farther away. In the light of the day, under the gentle sun and clad in the colours of late spring, she is a beauty to behold, rivalling any woman he has ever seen before. But when she smiles, it is not with the distance he has seen on her brethren’s faces - she smiles with the warmth of the sun and love in her eyes and he can see the depth of connection she has with his king. She, he knows, will make a wonderful queen.

And then he looks up, towards Éomer. Rohan will be an important ally in the generations to come, their bond hopefully as strong as it had been - stronger still, if Boromir has his way. But Rohan seems to approve, if the wondrous look on Éomer’s face is anything to go by.

Éowyn, his sister, Boromir’s future wife, stands next to him, half-hidden by his powerful frame. It is only then that Boromir really gets to see her. Even in Rohan, she had only kept with Aragorn and later Merry. Her eyes, locked onto Arwen, have a peculiar expression to them.

She looks like a ghost, Boromir thinks. With her pale skin and her bright blonde hair, she almost fades away. Not sickly yet, but close to it, despite her long stay in the Houses of Healing. She looks like she wants to vanish and there is pain in the way she holds herself up, the way she almost forces herself to watch when Aragorn takes Arwen in his arms.

Boromir remembers then, the way Éowyn had taken to Aragorn when they’d been in Rohan. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his conclusions and he looks away, worried and confused, the guilt still lingering.

Éowyn had fallen for Aragorn once. But Aragorn only loves Arwen, so he likely rejected her, if she ever approached him at all. And then, after the battle against Mordor’s forces, Éowyn needed to heal, as did Faramir. It makes sense, in a way - she is young still. Young and brave and strong in her own way, but weak like many others. Love, Boromir thinks, is a fickle thing if not cared for. The deep bond between Aragorn and Arwen is a work of decades, like a garden grown strong under careful hands.

Éowyn’s heart, it seems, has not fully healed before Boromir went and broke it again. And he hates it, hates to see her hurt this way, hates that he put her in that position. But he knows that there are things worse than this. Knows that, had he given her his brother, he would feel even stronger.

There are not many things Boromir wouldn’t do for Faramir. Which is why, when Éomer asked about a marriage between their houses, Boromir had stepped forward. For his king and Gondor, for Éomer and Rohan, for their future it needs to be done. It is their duty - both his and Éowyn’s. But looking at her now, to see for himself how much she suffers under that decision, makes it difficult to bear.

But bear it he will. He only needs to find a way to help his future wife be happy as well.

~~~

The wedding happens shortly after Arwen’s arrival. Boromir has never seen Aragorn as content as with his lady elf besides him, and it doesn’t take long for the people of the city to fall in love with her as well. Boromir has hoped, of course, that Gondor will welcome their king - has hoped for a long time now, ever since swearing his own loyalty to the man. To see the citizens brimming with hope and joy helps him deal with his own insecurities and he does his best to help the preparations, even though there is not much he can do. Most times, he goes back to his old duties and oversees the soldiers and their needs.

It is not easy work, not after so many have fallen in the battles past. There are families returning to Minas Tirith, women and children without their husbands and fathers who need help to settle back inside the city. Some soldiers have lost friends and brothers and suffer from nightmares as well as lingering injuries. So Boromir works, finding occupations for those who need to keep busy, organizes the trade for medicine and herbs, talks to widows and orphans and tries to mend whatever is possible to give them a new life in this hard-fought peace. It is hard, sometimes, but also rewarding, and he wonders if maybe this could be something Éowyn would take a liking to.

But then he thinks of what he knows of her. It isn’t much; he has barely met her yet, even though she no longer lives in the Houses of Healing. He knows that Merry, when not with the other hobbits or with him, visits her often. Most times, when he returns from such a visit, his face is full of worry. But some things he knows: That she is brave and strong even in the face of darkness; that she has succeeded where others have not, killing the Witch-king in defense of her uncle; that she loved Aragorn and might still love him, and that she loves Faramir.

That both times she loved, she was denied, and now she walks through the castle like a ghost, pale and beautiful and immeasurably sad.

But he doesn’t know what to do. His own wedding will be held after Aragorn’s and he cannot ask Éomer to cancel it - there are not many men left in Gondor with the standing needed to wed the king’s sister and if he doesn’t, it will be Faramir to bear that burden. And yet, whenever his path crosses hers, it is as if she flees from him. He doesn’t dare approach her of his own, either, and feels like a coward.

He isn’t the only one who notices her behaviour. People around them are not blind, and with each day Éomer, too, looks more and more miserable. They try to keep the issue away from Aragorn at least, but no solution comes to mind when Éomer seeks Boromir out.

“She was like this when she was freshly wounded,” he says, face etched in worry. “I spoke to Merry, since he was with her during that time, and he agrees. It’s as if all the time in the Houses of Healing never happened. She barely eats and speaks. Do you think it’d be better to rearrange-”

“With Faramir?” Boromir asks and he cannot do this. Out of all the things he is willing to do, this is the one he will not even consider. “She knows he doesn’t want to. It will only be a further insult to her.”

“But we cannot simply annul the betrothal. Rohan has no daughters left that can take her place and Gondor fares no better. The war has taken a steep toll. If only…”

Boromir watches Éomer, the way he fists his hands and stares into the distance. Miserable, just like his sister, and how could he not be? They both know what it means, that needs must. The people of both countries are in dire need of reassurance, of both their nations to be close allies again. At least Boromir can offer himself instead of giving away his younger brother; Éomer, as the new king, does not have this comfort. He, too, will need a wife, but Gondor’s highborn daughters are scarce.

Out of all of them, Aragorn is the one who freely chose his future wife, and all the more happy with it. Boromir doesn’t begrudge him this; he sees them every day and he cannot imagine Aragorn any more happy than at Arwen’s side. “What’s done is done, my friend,” he tells Éomer with a sigh. “Now it is on me to help her along. She is withering away, but there might yet be a solution she can live with. She is strong, after all. You said so yourself.”

“Even the strongest mind and body bow before a broken heart, Boromir,” Éomer says, eyes shadowed with the same guilt Boromir feels. “I can only hope that she will not hate me for a lifetime. I was too quick to arrange this, thinking she would love the chance to break out of Rohan - too long was she hidden away.”

And that is the crux of it, isn’t it? “And now she thinks of this as her new prison,” Boromir says slowly. It makes sense, in a way, and it isn’t a nice thought, but… but he could work with this. He could show her that she isn’t meant to be put away like a token, some pretty thing to just look at.

He can do that, he thinks. It is the least he can do for her.


	5. Chapter 5

Boromir is nothing like Faramir, Éowyn thinks. She doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Perhaps it is neither - without a choice of her own, it doesn’t feel like it matters. It is easy to keep her distance from him and from anyone else besides Éomer, who is anxious around her.

Him she ignores too, when he tries to talk to her. Ignores everyone, save Merry, who still comes to visit her whenever there is time. Around him, she feels less cold and distant. Around him, she manages to talk, if only about harmless things, things that have nothing to do with her upcoming marriage.

He doesn’t even mention Aragorn around her, or Arwen. Not even when the maids work on her hair and he sits close-by, chatting about the Shire and his family and his childhood in that distant, sunny country. It sounds nice, the Shire, and she thinks that she still has some want in her. She thinks she would like to visit there, someday, and see for herself that little nook of the world where things weren’t as complicated and suffocating as here.

In the Shire, she learns, there is no royalty, no nobility. Some families have more influence, some have less, but the hobbits are a folk that love an easy life and simple pleasures. They have no needs for kings and stewards. The only thing that comes close is the Thain, who manages what amounts to the guards of the Shire, and even then it is an elective title, a concept she still doesn’t quite understand.

The maid braids flowers into her hair and Merry tells her about the summer fests and birthday parties and the foods he likes to eat again, once he gets home. About cousins and uncles and sisters, about how Pippin and him used to steal mushrooms from the farms, running away from the dogs chasing them.

“If I am allowed,” Éowyn says quietly, slowly, her eyes still affixed to the mirror in front of her and the beautiful white flowers in her hair, “I will visit you there and you can show me, Merry.”

He goes still after that and she turns her head just so to see him. His face is sombre and his eyes are sad, but she can’t see any pity in them. “It’ll be the best time,” he says and smiles. It doesn’t chase away the sadness. This, she understands. “My family will love you, I’m sure. We can also go and visit Pippin, up in Tookland. And Bagend, where Frodo and Sam live.”

She’s met Pippin, if only shortly - Merry had brought him along once or twice. They are similar, in a way, only that Pippin is more cheerful and childlike, despite all that has happened. Frodo and Sam, she knows, are hobbits too, but them she has never met. She doesn’t know if she wants to. These days, Merry is the only one she can welcome, she feels. The only one that doesn’t make her want to never speak again.

“It’s settled then,” she tells him. “Even if they tell me not to.”

Merry swallows, but a glint comes to his clever eyes and his smile is more genuine, more mischievous now. “Just send a message and we’ll come and get you out, Dernhelm,” he says and Éowyn feels it - a fierce fondness warming her insides and the pin-prick feeling of tears right behind her eyes. She forces the latter away and takes his little hand instead. They both have calluses, worn into their skin by the heft of a sword and the weight of a shield.

Merry never sees anything else in her than Éowyn, but in his eyes, Dernhelm is just as much a part of her as the flowers in her hair.

~~~

When Éowyn had first seen Arwen, it had felt like a slap to the face. She hadn’t known that the woman Aragorn loved was an elf, but then she arrived with a full elven delegation, each and every one of them uncannily beautiful. And of them, Arwen is the most beautiful of all. Seeing her with Aragorn _hurts_ in a way she doesn’t want to dwell on. It is a dull kind of ache, of a time that seems worlds away, before she’d put on the mask of Dernhelm, before she lost her uncle, before she killed the Witch-king at a terrible cost. A time before she met Faramir, who’d slowly healed her wounds only to break her heart all over again.

What it says about her, to still have these lingering feelings for the future king, she doesn’t want to contemplate. It makes her think that she never truly loved either of them, or maybe she did, and she is simply not worthy of it. With Arwen in Minas Tirith, so very different from Éowyn, only furthers that conviction.

But by the Valar, she is beautiful and full of grace, soft where Éowyn thinks herself hard, dark where Éowyn wears the bright hair of her forefathers, slender and feminine and loving where Éowyn feels heavy and brisk and cold. Éowyn is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, her arms able and her grip strong, with calluses on her hands and scars on her body. The most she’s ever felt like herself has been during her time as Dernhelm - not because her disguise was that of a man, but because nobody even looked at her twice wielding a sword in defence for her king.

The wedding takes place soon after, and like everyone else, Éowyn too attends it. She is clad in a blue dress with white flowers in her hair, standing beside the hobbits, besides Merry, instead of her own brother and Boromir. Her talk with her friend gives her the strength to make this decision her own and she ignores the questioning looks of her brother and the lingering ones of her betrothed. Soon enough, her choices will be taken completely from her. She is to marry him within a fortnight from today and it hurts enough to see the blatant love and tenderness between Aragorn and his future queen, the way they both seem to glow with happiness.

She cannot see herself in Arwen’s place. Maybe that is some kind of healing, at least. But then, she can barely look at Faramir, who is stood next to his brother, splendid in his regalia, his copper hair bright in the sun and clashing with his sombre look.

 _No pity for me today,_ she tells herself. She feels like it would surely break her completely, if anyone decides to show her pity. Merry shuffles closer, perhaps sensing her troubling thoughts, and doesn’t so much as hesitate before taking her hand in his own.

“Will there be a dance?” he asks, a mix of worry and earnest curiosity in his voice. She looks down, the first time she can look away from the newlyweds this day, and meets his eyes. The other hobbits share his curiosity, the youngest, Pippin, nearly hopping up and down with excitement. “I would like to dance.”

“There will be,” she says and gives his hand a squeeze, thankful for the distraction. Maybe she can make it through the day. She just has to keep watching her small friend and his fellow hobbits, neither of whom remind her of her encroaching future.


End file.
